


fluctuation

by perpetvo



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Gentle Sex, M/M, alex flips between overwhelmed with love and horny and i feel like thats pretty relatable, alex gets in a mood and henry fucks it out of him, alex is horny, henry is just trying to WORK why is his boyfriend so horny all the time, okay it’s not that gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25033393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetvo/pseuds/perpetvo
Summary: It starts when Henry, a blessed early riser, wanders into their bedroom and sits on the sliver of mattress in between Alex’s torso and the edge of the bed. Alex hears a mug being put on the coster (Good boy, Alex thinks dozily, he remembered the coster) and the thick, dense smell of coffee.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 273





	fluctuation

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is not anything special and idk if this is relatable but yk 
> 
> we out here 
> 
> yearning

Sometimes Alex gets a little lost in his own head.

Not always, is he reclusive, short, irritable- that, he has come to realise, is stress bleeding out from stacks of policies and reforms and bills and grants and into the brownstone, the sanctuary where even sleepless nights are tinged warm, into his conversations with June on the phone (“Some of us have  _ real _ jobs, June.”) and most especially in how he will withdraw from Henry, the worst symptom of his strain of stress. 

He would go hours, days, even once or twice, weeks, without real interaction, little to no affection, definitely no sex. It is waking early, coming home late; work consumes him because it’s easier to fixate on one thing, especially when that one thing doesn’t involve the chemical variable of his feelings. And Henry will notice, and then he too will withdraw- internalising Alex’s impassiveness (Had he done something wrong? If Alex would just  _ talk  _ to him, he could be told where he needed to improve, he just wanted to fucking  _ communicate _ .) Eventually, it would all come to its boiling point- Henry would crack, Alex would implode and all those feelings would break from under his skin and he’d scream, or sob in Henry’s chest. They would hug and breathe in tandem until Alex lifted himself back onto the centre of the spinning top, realigning, recalibrating. Henry would plead for him to see a therapist more regularly. He would try, but in between work and exhaustion, he found it difficult. 

But this was not one of those times. 

It was… it was a mood, for sure, but it wasn’t stress-related. It felt as if a thick fog had overcome him, a soothing nitrous oxide permeating his grey matter and bringing him down while elating him. 

It starts when Henry, a blessed early riser, wanders into their bedroom and sits on the sliver of mattress in between Alex’s torso and the edge of the bed. Alex hears a mug being put on the coster ( _ Good boy,  _ Alex thinks dozily,  _ he remembered the coster) _ and the thick, dense smell of coffee. He can feel Henry’s eyes on him for a moment, and in return, Alex puts a hand on Henry’s thigh and attempts at a murmured thank you. Henry doesn’t say anything, just puts his hand over Alex’s and hums back, making Alex suspect he’s looking at his emails on his phone. His pale fingers rub idly over Alex’s sleep-warm hand and Alex has the immediate urge to cry, the feeling clawing up his throat and situating itself so that he can’t speak. He shuts his eyes and allows the feeling to hold itself there, but not letting it overwhelm him. He processes it as an intense wave of gratitude, of thanks, to Henry for his love and the gift of his morning coffee- distantly, he recognises his own melodrama, but the mood does not allow it. It doesn’t allow him to pour scorn on himself, fixating instead on an intense love for Henry.  _ Henry, Henry, Henry.  _ He consumes every thought, even as he dreams, morning light over his eyelids.

Alex meanders out of bed when he opens his eyes, lured by the threat of a cold coffee and the eventual want to be around Henry, who assumably got up some time ago- the spot on the bed is no longer warm. Alex mourns it with a hum and decides to bring the blanket out with him. 

The second moment the mood impedes on Alex is then. He walks into the living room, lies on the couch with the duvet over him, and sees Henry wandering around. He wishes he could say something that would make his reaction more reasonable- like perhaps if Henry wasn’t wearing a shirt, or his sweats, or if he were singing or working out, but no. Henry, in his decidedly unsexy, worn-out blue-red plaid pyjama bottoms and a cotton sleep shirt, is shoveling dog food into Chilli’s bowl. It will make his hands smell like dry, stocky chicken and slightly greasy, even though they bought a scoop for it. His hair needs a wash and Alex doesn’t think he’s put on deodorant (he wears one that, when Henry is needed in London and Alex cannot come with him, Alex occasionally sprays onto a spare pillow, to sleep with, because the empty space in the bed is  _ unbearable _ ) neither of them have showered, that’s for certain- and something attempting at nutrition but is probably mostly sugar awaits them in the kitchen when they decide to eat. 

But the mood decides that this, unshowered, at best he’s brushed his teeth- is Henry’s sexiest moment. He feels his cock thicken in his equally unattractive pyjama pants as he watches Henry begin filling a bowl with Lucky Charms; Alex stands corrected, today Henry makes no attempt at nutrition. It does not help his libido, especially when he flicks a meaningful look at Alex and shakes the box gently in question. Alex smiles sleepily, looking like a hungover adult burrito and nodding, feeling his expression grow into a sneaky grin as he considers this: he was not allowed to have Lucky Charms on any day except Saturday. It is now a Wednesday morning, and both of them are working from home for the moment, so they can wake and eat and sleep when they like, meaning that the child in Alex stirs with the novelty of it. When Henry wanders over, two bowls in his hands, Alex’s dick is throbbing, the adrenaline of breaking childhood rules, of being his own person making his head spin. He sits upright when Henry stands close to make his sugary delivery, but instead of taking a bowl and thanking him, Alex grins- at this height, his nose is in line with the band of Henry’s waistband. He tilts his head back and rests his hands on Henry’s hips, pressing a slow, deliberate, open-mouthed kiss to the bare skin in the sliver between shirt and bottoms. Henry is not impressed in that reproving-yet-amused, terribly English approach to Alex’s shenanigans, but a warm flush appears on his cheeks and blood seeps into the tips of his ears.

Alex then takes a bowl and eats, Henry taking a seat on the other end of the lounge. They silently and mutually consider watching morning TV, but they don’t; they sit and play some kind of slurred footsie and Alex’s hard on fades sufficiently that he thinks he can stand up without Henry’s eyebrows hitting his hairline. Not that he thinks he’d be judged- Henry has never given up an opportunity to flex his blowjob skills, and Alex would let him- but mostly because he wants to draw this… this mood out. This elatedness, this high, this overwhelming heightening of love and attachedness. 

Henry notices, clearly- his eyes follow him with a little too much interest, question, suspicion- but leaves Alex to bring it up or act on it; Alex continues to fluctuate between small gestures making his eyes well up and any kind of evidence of intimacy or committedness or togetherness making his cock throb in his sweats. Where the line between those two things is, Alex doesn’t know, but he knows that when Henry asks if he wants burritos or sushi for lunch his chest hurts and he chokes back tears in the bathroom five minutes after, and when he brushes his teeth after lunch (he forgot after breakfast because he fell asleep again) and sees Henry’s matching one (but in blue- Alex’s is in red, and yes, political jokes had been made) and considers walking out to where Henry is sitting at the table and getting on his knees right there, sucking him up and down until Henry grabs his hair and fucks his mouth. 

Or when Henry is- literally just sitting and typing, and stops to read something, and instead of biting his nails or tapping something while he reads, he takes Alex’s hand and laces their fingers together. Alex stares and his eyes burn, and he coughs slightly, clears his throat, to try and quell the rush of emotion. Shortly after that, he makes more coffee for them both and wants to fuck Henry into the marbled kitchen bench when he sees that Henry’s put a little sticky label on each type of tea he’s got, with a little description, for Alex, when he wants tea but doesn’t know the nuances of it like Henry does and he’s not accessible. He wants to hold him down and bite his neck and make him moan. 

It’s a good feeling, Alex decides, if sitting a little close to mania, even for him. 

Eventually they do tumble their way into sex- and Alex is so out of it he doesn’t really process the fact that Henry is pushing into him until he’s fucking him in earnest, and a dam breaks in Alex, and his back arches and when he exhales it’s a moan, loud and reverent. 

“God,  _ baby _ , don’t stop,” he breathes, hands blindly reaching for Henry, bringing him as close to his chest as possible. “Feels so good, you fuck me so good, Hen,  _ christ _ .” 

“There you are,” Henry whispers, Alex can feel his smile on his cheek, disrupted only by a kiss being pressed there. “Had a feeling this might bring you back after being in your head all day. All those times you teased me? You think I didn’t notice?” 

Henry’s cock hits him so good, and Alex is boneless, writhing from the pleasure. “Thought I would fuck you, though,” he whimpers, trying to grind back on Henry, who flips him like he’s nothing, onto his stomach. Alex presses his face into the sheets and moans like a whore. 

“Mm, you still can. Wanna come like this first, though?” Henry whispers, tugging his head back by his hair and nipping his ear. 

“Yeah,  _ god, Henry _ ,” he moans, and when Henry lets go of him he flops back and simply lets himself get railed, and somehow it is the boiling point of this anti-episode; he pants into the sheets and his eyes flutter, and he lets Henry come inside him and fill him up even though the clean up after is more intensive. Somewhere amongst this, he comes too, but it’s not enough. Henry flops next to him, grinning wildly, laughter on his lips. Alex is still moaning through his panted exhales, and Henry slides three fingers inside him and begins rubbing them over his prostate until his comes so hard he thinks he might have blacked out. When he’s back to having complex thoughts, Henry’s tongue is on his cock, forcing a weak jolt of come to escape him, as he cleans Alex of his mess, and Alex releases a destroyed whimper. 

When Henry is done on his rampage, he’s panting and self satisfied in a way that makes Alex lean over his suck on his lower lip. They make out like teenagers, biting and sucking and grinding, and Alex moans into Henry’s mouth on every other breath. 

When they’re done, exhausted, expended and showered, they fall into a familiar position- Henry’s cheek on Alex’s chest, their arms comfortably tangled. Alex lets out a breath and it feels like repentance to himself. He’s found his equilibrium again, the mood having shaken itself off- although not unpleasant as it was, he brushes a hand through Henry’s hair and it puts him back in the centre of his spinning top- recentred, realigned. 

He breathes out, and lets the dregs of the mood pass. 

  
  



End file.
